Repossession
by Emertheawesome
Summary: Twelve chapters. Twelve months. Hermione struggles to define her life and purpose after the final battle. Sometimes it just takes time.
1. January

Repossession 

Disclaimer: ___The characters and canon situations in the following story belong solely to JK Rowling, Scholastic and WB. I am not making any money from the publishing or writing of this story._

**~January~ **

They stand in a graveyard. The front gate of the graveyard in fact. They stand there and they don't move one step further because they are not sure if they can. Harry looks strait forward, unflinching and frozen. Ron shifts, uncomfortable and uneasy. Hermione just studies her shoes, though they aren't what she is really looking at.

It is muddy and cold and the place is deserted. It is well kept though. The lawns are mowed, the flowers are bright, and the graves are free of dirt. Hermione wonders why they decided to come on such an awful day, and muses that perhaps that is the only day they could ever come. She will probably never visit the graveyard in the summer. Whether that is sacrilege or not, she doesn't know, but she knows what she can handle and what she can't, and she can't handle standing in a graveyard of her peers in the sun.

She thinks about how the previous night, as they lounged around Harry's flat and cradled their firewhisky, Ron deliberated about the Missing Ones. The ones who Should Have Been Here, but weren't, and never will be.

She knows, that tucked away in Ron's coat is a bottle of firewhiskey, because as much as he loves to drink with Harry and her, he wants to drink with Them more. She can't deny her longing for a different path through history, but she refuses to say so out loud. She knows too well that Harry will take it on himself, another burden to shoulder, another death he tucks firmly in his pocket as a fault of his.

They are all happy. They are happy that Voldermort is dead. They are happy that they are nineteen and alive and have their whole lives ahead of them, but they aren't too.

Because the Others were only seventeen, and sixteen, and younger, and They don't have Their lives ahead of them. They have a coffin and stiff clothes and a beyond, though what that is none of them know.

Harry is the one who takes the first step past the gate. And another step.

Hermione watches him, watches his shoulders and how they slump slightly. He stops and turns around to look at them, a small smile spread across his face that looks much older than it is. Hermione wonders if their real age will ever catch up to their looks, or if they will always be one step behind.

"Who should we visit first?" asks Harry, because he has always been strong, and will always be strong, and she prays to God with all her might that his strength will never beat him. Strength is such a heavy burden to wear.

Ron is the next to walk in. And he reaches for the firewhisky as he does so. It's a bottle enough for a large group, but she has a feeling he will consume it all.

"Fred first," Ron says, "he was always the light one."

They both look at her, but her feet are rooted to the ground. A cement block has replaced her muddy shoes she just _can't move. _

She is frozen, a poll shoved down her spin and pins in her shoulders.

"You coming, Hermione?" Asks Harry, and his eyes glint a little. Sympathy, maybe? Understanding, perhaps? Yet he has always been the Strong One and so he waits because that's what he does for his friends, even if they don't quite deserve it.

"You know what?" says Hermione, and her guts twist and gnaw and rip at each other because she just _can't do this. _"I think I'll meet up with you guys later."

Harry looks concerned, and Ron looks a little buggered, but Hermione doesn't care. She doesn't want to right now. She wants to drink and forget and go numb. She's not ready to remember yet.

"Are you sure...?" trails Harry because he's like glue in that way. Always bringing them together.

But she nods and her cement feet dissolve and her spine poll cracks and breaks away, leaving her to turn and walk away.

When she reaches the pub she finds a dark corner to wallow in, because she doesn't want to be surrounded by the happy chatter of the Inn's occupants. She wants to be alone and discouraged and depressed by herself.

She doesn't think about graves, but she does think about faces. She thinks about Dumbledore, and Colin and Fred, and all the others. She thinks about seeing them in the Hogwarts halls, and what they did and how they spoke and what she did for them.

Which was nothing, she thinks. She did nothing for them at all.

When Harry and Ron find her, they are swaying and unfocused, and they want to visit again next month.

"I'm sorry," says Hermione, "but I already have plans."

And she does.


	2. February

Repossession

Disclaimer_: ____The characters and canon situations in the following story belong solely to JK Rowling, Scholastic and WB. I am not making any money from the publishing or writing of this story__._

**~February~ **

Hermione stumbles up the path, sliding as cracked stone gives way to mud and weeds. She pulls her jacket tighter around her body, trying to keep in some of the heat that the wind seems so insistent upon whipping away. The path isn't too steep or difficult, but it is old and beaten, and her body doesn't quite seem to want to listen to her. _A common occurrence recently_, she thinks to herself wryly.

When she reaches the top she sees a decrepit, wrought iron fence. Much of it is rusted away, leaving behind dangerous, serrated edges standing precariously from the ground. The gate is hanging by a mere hinge, and it vibrates slightly from the wind. To her left a sign sticks out of the ground, announcing the name of the name of the graveyard.

"Little Hangleton..." she murmurs to herself. Hermione shivers slightly.

It's not _that _graveyard, but it is still _a _graveyard, and she is apprehensive. But she has to force herself to move, because she _has _to do this, and in all honesty this is the easiest part. Quickly, so as not to lose her courage with wasted time, she pushes herself through the gate, deftly avoiding sharp metal obstacles in her path.

She has not been to this graveyard before, but she's heard plenty about it. Not from Harry, of course. Harry is not the kind of man to divulge information like where a boy had died. Harry is not the kind of person to discuss those things at all. He holds these things too close to his heart.

But Hermione has heard, despite the secrets people try to keep. She knows this is where, in Harry's fifth year, he witnessed the murder of Cedric Diggory.

She doesn't know why she has decided to come here. Normal people would just go to his grave, but Hermione is not normal, and she will probably never be. Besides that, she never new Cedric well, but in some ways he is symbolic in her mind.

Hermione weaves her way through the graves, wondering where Harry and Cedric had appeared, wondering where Pettigrew stood, wondering where Voldermort was revived. Wondering where Cedric had died.

She will never know, but just a few years previous, the Dark Lord could have been standing right where she is, and she feels a tingle of fear and disgust at this. She feels like she needs to take a long shower and scrub her skin clean, even though any essence of Voldermort and his army have long since faded from this place.

Hermione kneels in front of a grave stone, running her fingers along the engraved name and dates, crumbled with age and hardly legible. She thinks about how he is a symbol or the turn in their schooling. He is the predecessor of slain innocence and pale fear. Before Cedric, they had been children. After Cedric, they were forced to be adults.

Hermione flinches as she a noise behind her, a shifting of stones, the squelch of mud. She whirls around, hand tightly gripping her wand in her pocket.

She relaxes though because it's just a man. He's wearing a ragged tweed jacket and an even sadder looking pack hitched tightly to his back. His hat is lowered over a gaunt face and suspicious eyes.

"Mr. Diggory," says Hermione, though she knows there is a small chance that he will recognize her.

He looks surprised at this, and he shifts awkward for a moment before he speaks.

"Miss," he mutters.

Hermione nods, casting her eyes around the dreary area. She is surprised that Cedric's father would come here instead of his grave.

Hermione says as much, and Amos Diggory nearly flinches.

"I just," he stutters, and Hermione tries not to remember how confident and boastful he was of his son. "I talked to Mr. Potter, and.... Well."

He's at a loss for words, but Hermione understands. He doesn't really need to explain. As a second thought she casts a quick drying charm and settles herself down on the ground, leaning against the headstone. Amos looks shocked for a moment, and Hermione hopes he doesn't think her disrespectful, before he follows suit, settling down a few feet away.

They sit in silence for a few minutes. Not comfortable, but not quite awkward either. It's a neutral silence. A silence of measurement and thoughtfulness.

"Not a very nice place to die," says Amos, eyes unfocused.

Hermione is silent for a few moments. She doesn't know whether to console him, or state the obvious.

"It usually isn't, when it concerns Death Eaters," she finally replies.

"Mm."

"But," she mumbles, "at least he did it heroically."

There is a flash of something on Amos' face. Pride, she thinks. Even after all this time; all the years that have passed, the man still has admiration for his son.

"He was the best to the very end, wasn't he?" asks Amos, a small smile splayed across his lips.

Hermione almost laughs, and almost cries, because she never knew Cedric, but she wishes she had. "I should think so," she says confidently.

They sit there some more, and it begins raining a little. Hermione stands up, brushing off her robes.

"Perhaps I will see you at the ministry, Mr. Diggory," she says.

"Yes, perhaps," he mumbles, but she knows he's not really talking to her, or listening. His eyes are glossy and staring at something entirely different than the dreary graveyard they are in. She tries not to think of father and son, of birthdays and new clothes and boyish laughter and pride as he gets an invitation to Hogwarts. She doesn't want to think that, because she is sure that is what Amos is replaying in his head, and how short of time he really had with his irreplaceable son.

It's pouring by the time she leaves, stumbling her way down the pathway in a disjointed, halfhearted effort.

That night Hermione dreams of dragons and dungeons and being stuck on the bottom of a lake, and how she wouldn't change anything, but she wishes she could.


	3. March

Repossession

Disclaimer_: ____The characters and canon situations in the following story belong solely to JK Rowling, Scholastic and WB. I am not making any money from the publishing or writing of this story__._

**~March~**

Hogwarts is not much different, despite all that happened there in the past year, in the past _years _really. The castle is still grand and imposing, stonework elaborate, trees menacing. The Womping Willow is still at the moment, and though it seems to have less branches than before, it remains a terrifying presence in her memories.

As Hermione walks up to the school she grimaces slightly. This is the first time she has been back in a long while. In months, really. She doesn't want so say it brings back bad memories, but it does. She reconciles though, because it brings back good memories too. She passes by Hagrid's little house, and she is assaulted by memories of Harry and Ron and her, and her chest tightens because she _loves _this place with all her heart, even though it's so difficult to do so.

When she reaches the school she heads strait for the library. She's not sure she is supposed to be here. It's probably not allowed. But the wards let her in and no teachers appear to stop her, so she continues on her trek.

When she reaches the grandiose library doors she pauses. It feels like a century since she wandered these halls, lugging a heavy book back, or sneaking around with the boys. She falters as she thinks about Colin Creevy and him attacking Harry with a camera and his excitable hero-worship. And she thinks of him small and battered and bruised and _dead._

But Hermione shakes her head and pushes through the doors. Madam Pince looks up when Hermione enters, eyebrows raised. Hermione greets her with a soft smile, and the older woman returns it. Hermione thinks she might talk to her later, but right now she has more important things to do.

She makes her way to the old editorials and newspapers for Hogwarts.

The aisle she reaches is shuffled and disorganized. It looks like even Madam Pince hasn't looked at it for years. Hermione wonders if there is a reason for that, because usually the librarian is immaculate when it comes to records and books. Hermione understands though, she really does. She doesn't want to go through these. She doesn't want to see the happy, unscarred faces in these pictures. It's only shows how blatantly things have changed.

But Hermione does rummage through those folders, because she has too. She finds the year that Colin Creevy entered and she goes through the pictures. Before her lies a stack. On top is Ron, Harry and her. Ron is irritated, Harry bemused, and she is smiling at them both. The picture replays that moment in time over and over again.

The next one is of some students she doesn't recognize. Possibly from different houses or different years. There is one of Malfoy, glaring at the at the photographer and pointing his finger in accusation. There is one of Fred and George, though which is which she can't tell the difference.

Finally she finds one that has Colin in it. He's grinning, teeth showing, camera in hand, looking about ready to jump on Harry, who looks panicked.

Hermione smiles.

They were always so irritated with him, but he was brave and it was such a _waste. _He should be working at the Daily Prophet, she thinks. Or a magazine where he could interview all the famous, upper crust wizards and witches. What he shouldn't be is absconded to merely laughing in pictures from years earlier, oblivious to his future.

Hermione sighs and drops her forehead into her hands. She is tired. She wants to go home, have a cup of tea, and forget. Maybe it was a mistake to come back here so soon to sift through the past.

She wants to go see Ron and Harry. She wants to feel Ron's arms around her, safe, encompassing. She wants Harry to smile at her, giving her a good rub on the back and a "It's alright, 'Mione. Everything will be okay."

But she knows she shouldn't, because then they will want to go with her, and that will defeat the purpose of her petty quest. She needs to do this herself, whatever this is she is doing.

Because, in all reality, she is not sure. She's not sure whether she will _ever _overcome the slump that she has fallen in.

Hermione sighs and glances down at the photo in her hands, then tucks it into her pocket, next to her wand. She is sure that it's not allowed, but she can't bring herself to care. One picture isn't going to be missed.

After putting everything away and organizing it a bit better than before, Hermione goes to greet Madame Pince.

The librarian smiles at her kindly as she approaches.

"Miss Granger. It's good to see you still appreciate the library."

Hermione smiles, amused. "Yes, even after graduation I can't stay away."

"Well," replies Madame Pince, "you're welcome whenever you wish to come."

"Thank you, Madame Pince," mumbles Hermione. Her eyes feel itchy and dry, and she blinks to try to get rid of it.

The librarian pretends not to notice. "Have you gone to see Minerva yet? She is busy, but I'm sure she would wish to catch up over tea."

"Another time, I think," says Hermione. "I have some chores I need to do." Because she doesn't want to take tea in the office where Dumbledore used to sit. She doesn't want to see his portrait on the wall.

"Of course, dear. Take care then."

"You too, Madame Pince."

When Hermione gets home that night she slips the photo out of her pocket and stares at it. She smiles, grabs some tape, then hangs it in her bedroom. When she lies down to sleep she can see it from her bed. Over and over again Colin grins in excitement as Harry tries to escape. Over and over again.


End file.
